Adventures In 2017

2017: Top 10 Highlights

Check Out Our New Boat Ashore Productions Animated Production Company Logo!


Montana S&S Poster v04

This Fall, I directed a short film called MONTANA, based on a TV pilot script of mine that was a finalist in the 2016 Sundance Episodic Story Lab. With a top notch cast and crew, we completed the film this month. And with the backing of more than 170 incredible supporters, we ran a successful crowdfunding campaign on Seed & Spark, reaching 104% of our goal. Additionally, we partnered up with The American Foundation For Suicide Prevention to use the film as a catalyst for dialogue, support, and education around mental health and suicide prevention. We are currently submitting the film to festivals around the world. If there’s a film festival you love, let us know!



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For this year’s 71st Annual Tony Awards, I directed one of the video segments for the telecast, directed the Nominees Luncheon in the Rainbow Room and Cocktail Reception at the Sofitel Hotel, and co-ran the After Party Gala at the Plaza Hotel. I look forward to returning in 2018!



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Celebrating 81 years of service, The 2017 Fashion Scholarship Fund Awards raised $3.5 million dollars at this years gala, which I directed at The Grand Hyatt NYC. The FSF grants the single largest sum of money and total number of scholarships in the entire US. I’ll be returning to direct the 2018 gala, held next month at the Marriot Marquis in the largest ballroom in New York City.
For more on the 2017 gala, visit HERE.


All Star Code 4th Annual Summer Benefit

All Star Code 4th Annual Summer Benefit  All Star Code 4th Annual Summer Benefit

In 2013, I helped launch the national tech education non-profit All Star Code. It was an honor to return this year as Creative Director for my 4th consecutive benefit, and ASC’s most successful one yet, raising nearly $850,000 for its incredible programming. All Star Code creates economic opportunity by developing a new generation of black and Latino entrepreneurs who have the tools they need to succeed in technology.
For more on ASC, visit HERE.



This year at Fiverr HQ, Boat Ashore Productions launched its first ever workshop series, THE POWER OF PLAY, a unique and engaging on-your-feet experience that helps people access and utilize their two greatest resources when combating fear, fatigue, or frustration: a sense of wonder and their capacity to play. If you’re interested in bringing a POWER OF PLAY workshop to your home or office in 2018, e-mail me at



2017 included a number of exciting, creative explorations, one of which was developing SPICE IT UP!, my TV project with Elspeth Keller Scott, into an interactive, choose-your-own-adventure style series with Warner Music Group and Eko. While we have chosen to continue developing the series in a more traditional format, exploring the interactive and VR landscape was a thrill, and Boat Ashore Productions continues to develop and produce various interactive, immersive, and experiential content.


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This Summer, I spent 10 days on the outskirts of Bar Harbor, Maine participating in my first writer’s residency, The Hamilton Project, courtesy of the Barn Arts Collective. I wrote and workshopped a selection of my new play, THE EXPERIMENT.


PYMK PremiereReal Wizard   unnamed

Check out my appearances in two films released this year,
THE WIZARD OF LIES (Dir. Barry Levinson – Now streaming on HBO), and
PEOPLE YOU MAY KNOW (Dir. Sherwin Shilati – Now available on
iTunes, Amazon, Google Play, and VOD).


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From driving up the Dalmatian Coast of Croatia and jumping off waterfalls in Bosnia and Herzegovina to dancing the night away in the catacombs of a 12th Century abbey outside Paris, 2017 certainly had some of my favorite adventures yet. Stay tuned here, at, for more adventures soon.



One of 2017’s greatest honors was hitching a ride down to Washington D.C. and participating in the Women’s March. Social engagement and activism have always played an essential role in both my professional and personal work. Going into the new year, may we all continue to march on, lifting up the voices of the few, the minority, the quiet, the oppressed, and the disenfranchised.

Boat Ashore Productions Offers Creative Direction,
Project Management, and Production Services
For Digital Media, Immersive Entertainment, and Large-Scale Events.

Stay Up To Date By Following Our New Social Media Profiles On Facebook And Instagram. Thank You For Your Incredible Support. Let’s Continue To Make Great Things Together In The New Year.

SEE YOU IN 2018!

happy holidays 1

Michael (aka The Adventure Addict) + Boat Ashore Productions


Adventures In Combating Complacency

And now for something completely different.

I’m going to swear online for the first time today.

Racist Nazi fucks don’t scare me.

You wanna fuck with black people and Jewish people? Good luck with that.

Here’s what does scare me: Complacency. I was out at a bar last night for a birthday party. I was talking to friends about Charlottesville. I then struck up a conversation with a stranger – a finance bro. (Now I don’t mean to belittle “finance bros” at all. But I said it, and now I bet you can visualize him better. I mean he probably dressed up as Patrick Bateman once for Halloween because he thought he was being “ironic.” I digress.)

The guy said he didn’t know what happened yesterday because he doesn’t watch or read the news. When I began to tell him what happened – Yes, Michael, by all means initiate a conversation about politics and Nazism with a stranger in a bar – he said he didn’t want to know.

Now I don’t post much on Facebook these days other than random questions and photos with vague song lyrics from the 90’s as captions. It’s just not a productive place for me. I never post news links and rarely write political posts. People who know me know this is not for lack of political or social engagement in the slightest. I simply prefer to focus my time on taking action offline, every day, with intention, engaging with people face to face.

But this conversation followed last night, which I quickly wrote down after it ended because it scared me so much. I felt the need to share it on social media because I believe there’s an even greater terror on our hands than this small population of racist Nazi fucks (many of whom, fascinatingly, if you check their Twitter handles, claim to be anti-Nazi, but we’ll get into that another time).

The greater terror, to me, is the complacency and apathy of every day Americans.

Our conversation continued:

So you don’t read the news either?


Never catch it on a screen somewhere? Talk to friends about it?

Nope. I don’t want to know about it. I’ve never voted either. (He said PROUDLY.)

Why not?

One vote doesn’t mean anything. My vote can’t do anything. Let me tell you something – most people are scum.

Do tell me. Tell me more.

Most people are scum! And I don’t want anything to do with scum.

These men and women were marching with swastikas yesterday. These are the people who make death threats to synagogues and raid Jewish cemeteries. These are the people killing our black brothers and sisters in the streets.

See, I told you! Scum! But I’m never going to cross paths with any of them. So. They’re not my problem.

What about other people’s problems? What about empathy?

There’s nothing I can do.

There’s so much you can do! Volunteer, donate, call, e-mail, tweet at your representatives, raise your voice, engage, dialogue, march, protest…

Protests don’t do anything. Protests have never accomplished a damn thing. You’re wasting your time. Like I told you, most people are scum. It’s the way of the world.


What kind of work do you do?

Investment banking.

Do you enjoy your work?

Naw. I hate it, honestly.

What would you rather be doing?

I don’t know. So long as I never have to go above 14th Street, I’m good.


I smiled and walked away.

He’s wrong. Most people aren’t scum.

Yes, some people light the world up with their tiki torches from Home Depot while shouting “White Lives Matter,” completely devoid of the true irony that their weapon of choice is an American bastardization of a non-white symbol. (Let’s face it: Their hats were made in China too.)

No, most people aren’t scum. But some are. Some are willing to just standby and watch the world burn.

The amount of pain and wrongs done in the world every day is immeasurable and overwhelming. And yes, people have no legal or even human obligation to look after or take care of their fellow human beings. But that is not who I choose to be.

I choose to be someone who doesn’t turn the world off because it’s painful and overwhelming. I choose to be someone who strives every day to do what they can to learn, listen, and make a positive impact. And I’d say the people I tend to surround myself with have the same viewpoint. Of course, we can’t consume the 24 hour news media. We can’t desensitize ourselves to the point of no return. We have to take care of ourselves and our well-being first. But as someone who dedicates their life to storytelling, to building empathy in individuals and strength in communities, I won’t ever stop trying to get people to open up their hearts and minds and pay attention to the world around them. That’s not just how we’ll grow. It’s how we’ll survive.

Friends, instead of railing against Trump every day from your private Facebook accounts and posting another “But her e-mails” meme, please help me talk to these kinds of people face to face every day as respectfully as possible. Lord knows I’m trying. Listen to them. Challenge them. Engage them. I know it’s difficult. But try. You have to try. Our democracy, our world, our future is at stake.

Adventures in Loss

She was the first artist I knew. She was a painter. She made her living oil painting over the portraits my grandfather, a photographer, took in his Brooklyn studio. Their business was called Vega Photography.

She was the first chef I knew. When I was a child, her visits were hotly anticipated. She arrived bearing the gooiest and most delectable rocky road fudge you could ever imagine. Frankly, you couldn’t imagine it. Human imagination could never grasp such godly, culinary ecstasy. The fact that she made rocky road seems apropos. She always found sweetness in and around hardships.

Janet was born in Harlem. Her birthday was my half birthday. My half birthday was her birthday.

She played basketball in high school. Baller. FullSizeRender

She began dating Robert, my grandfather-to-be, when she was 18 years old. He was a photographer in the Army. They met at a dance. He drove her home. When he leaned in to kiss her, she slapped him.

Shortly thereafter, they started dating.

Shortly thereafter, Pearl Harbor was hit.

Robert was to be sent overseas, except a funny thing happened on the way to war. At the end of his final medical check-up, the doctor hesitantly asked, “Robert, I’m not supposed to ask things like this, but are you by any chance dating a girl named Janet Axelrad over in Bensonhurst?”

“I am,” Robert said. “I’m gonna marry her, and we’re gonna start a family too. As soon as I get back from the war.”

The doctor subsequently diagnosed Robert with flat feet. Accurately, I might add. Robert was never sent overseas. Instead, he remained stationed stateside, first in Colorado Springs, then in Oklahoma City, then in Kansas City. The doctor ensured that Robert could stay with Janet, which he did, marry her, which he did, and raise a family with her, which he did.

The doctor turned out to be Janet’s cousin.

As for the ship Robert was meant to deploy on?

It was torpedoed in the South Pacific and sank.

Janet married Robert at age 20, and had my father, Lee, at age 22. Four years later, she had my uncle, Cliff.

She was a first generation American, the daughter of Polish immigrants Harry and Gussie Axelrad. Harry opened and operated Cathedral Bar & Grill on Christopher Street. It is now an Italian restaurant called Gaetana’s. The floor tiles Harry laid down a century ago remain. I often wonder if he imagined his great-grandson would one day stand on those very tiles.

Harry spoke Polish, German, English, and Yiddish. The usage of Yiddish would decrease with each passing generation, though my parents never failed to tuck me in without a Schluff Gezunt. “Sleep well.”

Janet was a Modern-Orthodox Jew. She kept a Kosher kitchen. As a kid, I could never comprehend why she had so many plates.

Janet and Robert left Brooklyn for West Palm Beach in 1983, shortly before I was born.

A few years ago, I visited Robert’s sister Annette, who was still living in the Brooklyn home where Robert grew up. In the basement, I stumbled upon my grandfather’s dark room, still intact from the 1950’s. I took pieces of paper off the walls with handwritten quotes, as well as hundreds of paper scraps that I later spent a year piecing together, forming both a 19th century Dutch shipping calendar, which I kept for myself, and an early 20th century map of Brooklyn, which I had framed and gave to my father on his 70th birthday. Annette passed away and the house was demolished shortly after my visit.

My grandfather called Janet “Red.” Her big red mane was unmistakable and unavoidable. I was a perpetual disappointment to her strictly because my own red hair became increasingly brown with every passing year. FullSizeRender_1

“Where’s your red?”

“I don’t know, Grandma.”

“Are you dyeing your hair?”

“No, Grandma.”

“Why is your hair getting so dark?”

“I don’t know, Grandma.”

“You know you really should stop dyeing it. It makes you special. Let your red come out to play.”

She never called me Michael. She called me, “My Michael.” I never knew exactly why. But I always liked the fact that she claimed some kind of ownership over me. I was in good hands.

I remember celebrating Janet and Robert’s 50th Wedding Anniversary at my older brother’s Bar Mitzvah. Robert died shortly before my Bar Mitzvah.

Unable to find a conservative temple in her area, Janet founded one herself. This is where she met her second husband, Harry Wolovitz. They were together for 5 years before he passed.

In 2010, due to declining health, Janet moved to California to be closer to my Dad. She lived in an assisted living home called Alma Via, a few doors down from the grandfathers of my friends Marissa and Jena. In her final days, she had dementia, one leg, and a tumor on her face. But she never complained. She continued to laugh. I loved her laugh. Her eyes would squint and her voice would crack and it was the cutest darn thing you ever did see.

The thing I’ll remember most about Janet is how we would look at each other from across a room. In the afternoons at Alma Via, Janet would park her wheel chair in the common area. Clusters of people in wheelchairs would surround her. While their eyes would glue to the TV screen, Janet’s eyes would gaze out the windows at the flowers and the sunshine.

Whenever I would visit her at Alma Via, I’d peek my head around the corner of the common area and stare at her until her eyes found mine. Sometimes it would take a few minutes, but it was always worth it. She would discover me, then stare at me blankly for a few moments. Then a smile would slowly creep across her face. Her eyes would twinkle. And we’d stay there for a few minutes, just smiling at each other from across a room.

The last time I saw her, we stared at each other for what felt like 50 years. Eventually I approached her.

“My Michael,” she said, slowly. “Where’s your red?”

I tapped my heart and smiled.

Then she tapped her heart and smiled.

Schluff Gezunt, Red.


Janet Axelrad Schwartz




Adventures In Surviving 2016

Cheers To The Friends


Cheers To The Gatherings


Cheers To The Travel


Cheers To The Adventures


And Cheers To The Memories


2016 was certainly my most adventurous year yet, in every sense of the word. I am thankful for the opportunity to know so many incredible people and places around the globe. Let us all continue to combat insularity and hate and strive for a kinder, more generous, and more inclusive world.

Wishing excitement and prosperity, love and connection, strong hearts and open minds to all my fellow adventure addicts out there.

Adventures In Leaving Home

To the past and future ghosts of W. 84th Street –

I moved to W. 84th and Amsterdam in September of 2007.img_8044

Apt 2E. “Tooey” as I affectionately called the place, labeling it as such on the front door the month I moved in. It’s the nickname Seymour gave the plant in “Little Shop Of Horrors”. You know, the thing he nurtured that eventually ate him whole.

I was in New York three months earlier, the youngest participant in the Lincoln Center Director’s Lab. I was a 22-year-old film actor in LA, masquerading as an assistant in the studio system, and I wanted to be a theatre director in New York. It was to be the smartest financial decision of my life. (🙄 )

I found this one month sublet at W. 84th and Amsterdam on Craigslist from a guy named Jonathan who was leaving to volunteer in Cambodia for a few weeks. I was back in LA, so “Cousin Jen” investigated the apartment for me. One room had a young girl from Texas. One room was acting as a storage closet for a rich girl who lived elsewhere with her boyfriend. And the third room was an office turned bedroom with a futon on the floor.

That room was to be mine.

I packed my bags. I had one month to see if New York was for me.

Then. Jonathan e-mailed me. He decided to stay in Cambodia. Full time.

The futon was mine if I wanted it. The lease was mine if I wanted it as well.

So I took over the lease and I found a steady gig as a middle school tutor.

Then. A month later, I booked a job on my first Broadway show. Sunday In The Park With George.

I guess I was staying in New York after all.

But things weren’t supposed to happen that fast, right? Where were my years of living pay check to pay check and feeling terrified I might end up sleeping on the streets? Oh that was to follow my Broadway debut? Got it.

Sunday In The Park opened. And the recession hit.

My Dad always told me, “Everything is negotiable.” So I negotiated my rent down. I hesitantly asked for a $300 decrease, thinking they’d laugh in my face. They said…”Sure.”

I was officially a lease holder on West 84th Street. 84. My birth year. 8, my lucky number. 4, the members of my immediate family. 8, the symbol for infinity, my greatest fear. 4, like a sail of a boat ashore, my greatest love. It is possible to find so much meaning, and yet look at an 84 sideways and you just might see a guy sticking his tongue out at you. After all, in Hebrew numerology, “84” means “G-d laughs.” Apropos. Do not look for meaning!

84th Street is also known as Edgar Allen Poe Way, but I won’t bore you with any far-reaching connections there.

In 2007 I became a New Yorker. I hustled and I hustled and I hustled. I took every job under the Sun. I did in fact live paycheck to paycheck for 6 years. I poured every dime into my work. I went broke twice. Red. The ATM actually said negative.

Every year I thought I’d finally move into my “real” place. But it never made sense to leave. There are fewer apartment buildings on W. 84th Street than any other residential block on the Upper West Side. That’s because there are two schools on 84th between Amsterdam and Columbus. My living room looked out on to a private garden and the bright blue sky.

The rent stayed down. And the neighborhood went up, up, up. Old Jews made way for New Strollers. The Columbia kids moved down. Good Enough to Eat moved to Columbus. And Jacob’s Pickles transformed the 7 block stretch.

Things changed after my bike accident three and a half years ago. I started writing more. I became more entrepreneurial. I created my own projects. And I started to make a living. I became a working, thriving artist. It was all I ever wanted to be.

I also started spending about a third of the year in California. Subletting out that office-turned-bedroom was the only way I could make it work.

W. 84th and Amsterdam has been my home for 9 years and 3 months. In that time, it has been home to a lot of other people as well. A LOT. I could tag half of my Facebook friends right now. Roommates and sublettors. In Betweeners and assorted vagabonds. People I met on Craigslist became roommates became lifelong friends. Thankfully, there was only one true crazy – the very first new roommate. She worked in “fashion”, did coke binges in her bedroom, and came out of her bedroom every five days to eat pizza on the hallway floor and scream in the middle of the night. img_9051

I stand now in this empty space staring at dead walls. But I’ll remember life here. I’ll remember profound joys and surmountable challenges. I’ll remember madcap Hanukkah celebrations. I’ll remember my roof. Oh will I remember my roof.

But more than anything else, I’ll remember the people. Roommates and friends. Deaf and nearly blind Miss Faagata across the hall. Sweet Miss Zingone on the 5th Floor. She must be 90 years old now. I always felt so bad living on the first floor while she slowly climbed five stories to the top.

I’ll remember Joe and Joe at the hair salon downstairs. I’ll remember the kids of Brandeis and PS 9. And I’ll remember Vivian at the laundromat on the corner. Vivian. Sweet, funny Vivian. I think I’ll miss you most of all.

I will be the keeper of this block. I will be its historian. W. 84th between Amsterdam and Columbus. 2007-2016. I walked this street a million times. I took notes. I told its stories. Now new people will come. I hope they’ll smile at their neighbors. I hope they’ll water the plants. Most of all, I just hope they’ll laugh at all of Vivian’s jokes.

My time here had its fair share of problems.
But for nearly a decade, this place was full of dreams.
For nearly a decade, this place was full of love.
For nearly a decade, this place was my home.

I might as well end with a quote from Poe himself:

“I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.”





Adventures In Voting In The 2016 Presidential Election

November 8th, 2016 img_7356

Today is the 19th anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah and please PLEASE no gifts. Okay the only gift I’ll accept is your help in electing Dorothy and Hugh’s daughter as our next President!

PS. My Haftorah portion was about the evolution of Avram’s name into Abraham. Kinda like Mister President into Madam President. So Bible Belters, it was written all along!

PPS. Shout out to volunteer Leticia at Frank McCourt High School on the Upper West Side. She was having a rough morning, though she wore her brave face well. I asked her if I could give her a hug, which she accepted. She held tight. When my ballot scanner said “Error” twice before finally being accepted, I looked to Leticia with concern. She said, “Don’t worry, baby. Your vote counts.” Then SHE asked if she could hug ME.
Obvi, Leticia. Obvi.

PPPS. I read Susan B. Anthony’s biography while I waited in line for my ballot. “Failure is impossible.” This morning, 19 years after my Bar Mitzvah, as I audibly wept in line and conversed with my sweet neighbors and hugged Leticia and bought a cupcake from the children and helped an old man find the disability entrance and thought about all the incredible women in my life and filled out a bubble next to our first female President’s name, I think I finally became a man.

November 9th, 2016

Mexican friends, Muslim friends, LGBT friends, Disabled friends, Immigrant friends, Female friends…The list goes on. Know and trust how many millions of people stand behind you. Who stand with you. Who will fight for you. Tonight. Tomorrow. Always.

I don’t know Trump, but I met him a few times when I first moved to New York. I was his waiter at Ivanka’s wedding. I remember watching him, in his yarmulke, with his arms around his new son-in-law, proud, respectful, curious, chanting with the rabbis for hours into the night. This whole election, I haven’t been able to get that image out of my head. It has simultaneously disgusted and infuriated me, while giving me the single shred of hope I cling to about him.

I encourage everyone to watch Secretary Clinton and President Obama’s speeches this morning. I couldn’t sleep all night. I walked these streets in the rain this morning feeling all sorts of things I’ve never felt before. I tried to sing. I tried to pray. I tried to summon the strength of my ancestors, today, of all days, on the anniversary of Kristallnacht.

But after watching both Clinton and Obama’s speeches, I do feel just a bit better, a bit more hopeful, a bit more galvanized, than I did last night. It’s a start.

My faith lies in all of you – my friends, my allies, my communities. I vow to work every day moving forward to ensure a more vibrant, inclusive, open-hearted America. Join me. Let us mourn. Then let us get back to work.

“This is the end of nothing. This is the beginning of something new and solemn and so important. You must be part of what comes next.” – Neil DeGrasse Tyson

Adventures In Visiting Small Cities, Part I

In anticipation of visiting San Sebastián, Spain next week, I wanted to highlight some of my favorite small cities and towns around the world.


img_6072I’ll kick off with Kinsale, a medieval fishing port turned “Gourmet Capital” on the Southwest coast of Ireland. Located in the province of Munster about 27 km/17 miles from Cork, Kinsale is known as Ireland’s Riviera.
I think I originally fell in love with Kinsale because it reminded me so much of Sausalito in my hometown of Marin County, California. Cafés, pubs, and restaurants line the River Bandon. (Which looks far more like a bay than a river.) The locals are warm and quick to tell excellent stories. And a stroll along the grassy knolls often leads you to what look like abandoned castles.

My father took this photo of me in 2005, jumping around Charles Fort, a military base on the water’s edge. (James’ Fort is located on the opposite side of the harbor.) If you find yourself in Ireland soon, Kinsale is definitely worth a visit.

Ticead amhain go dti an Kinsale, le do thoil!

About a decade ago, I stumbled upon Cortona, a small town perched on a mountaintop in the province of Arrezo in Tuscany, Italy. Traveling from Florence to Rome, I hopped off the train for an afternoon of exploration. Cortona was everything I wanted in a small Italian town – familial and romantic, featuring cobblestones and architecture rich with history, and a sunset view of Tuscany that would bring me to tears. (Alas, while the town was featured in the 2003 film “Under The Tuscan Sun,” Diane Lane was nowhere to be found.) I always encourage people to hop off trains while in unknown territories. You can always catch the next one, and you just might find an adventure you’ll be talking about for the rest of your life.


img_6310I’ve been to Guatemala twice, once at age 15, and again at 23. I went to volunteer at El Hospital de la Familia in Nuevo Progreso with my father, who’s been making the trip annually for decades. Of the many towns I love in Guatemala, from Tikal to Atitlan, Antigua always stands out as a special place. This photo was taken just outside Antigua at the peak of Mt. Pacaya, an active volcano. Want a one of a kind experience? Hike up some molten rock to the clouds, and watch the lava flow in crevices just a couple feet below you.


img_6518I went backpacking through Eastern Europe in 2007 in search of my great-grandfather Leo’s art. He attended art school in Vienna at the turn of the 20th century. So I knew, at the very least, that Austria would be on the itinerary.

En route to Vienna, I spent a few days further West in Salzburg, birthplace to Mozart, home of the world renowned Salzburg Festival, and backdrop to the 1965 classic, The Sound Of Music.

Now I haven’t cried a lot in the last 10 years, but I did produce those perfect, slow-to-trickle-down-the-cheek Demi Moore style tears in Salzburg. And I encourage you to do the same.

Visit the Schloss Mirabell, admire the palace’s Baroque interior, walk up and down the Donnerstiege, a spectacular marble staircase. Then take in a performance of classical chamber music inside the Marble Hall. The night I visited, I was treated to a Dvořák string trio. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. (Cue those tears.)

If you have a spare day, I also a recommend a day trip to Mondsee, a lake town 27 kilometers outside the city. Enjoy a delicious Viennese coffee, then recreate Maria and Captain’s wedding in the historic medieval Mondsee Abbey.
Well, that’s what I did.

Adventures In Celebrating The High Holy Days


I’ve been thinking about this story.

A man went to his Rabbi and asked him how he could finally be free of all his problems, his anxieties, and all that was negative in his life.

The Rabbi told the man that the only time he’ll be free of his problems, his anxieties, and all that is negative is when he is dead.

The man decided he was willing to die so that he could be free.

So the Rabbi sat the man in a chair and said he’ll pour hot tar down the man’s throat.

And he did.

And the man screamed and convulsed as the hot tar shot down his throat and entered his stomach.

But. The man did not die. Because it wasn’t hot tar that now flowed through his body.

It was honey.

The man felt fine. The man felt free.

The man had to be willing to consume the hot tar only to find out that it was really honey.

The Rabbi could not have told the man that it was going to be honey to begin with.

The man felt fine. The man felt free.

Now, truth be told, you could say this Rabbi was a bit of an asshole.

But. I understand the point.

This year, may you take on your greatest challenges and fears head on.

May you come out the other side feeling less burdensome. May you carry less weight.

May you thrive in your work, in your love, and in your service to the world.

You can’t do everything. But you must do something.

Most of all, may you have a sweet, sweet, sweet new year.

L’shanah tovah tikateyvu v’tichatemu.

May you be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

Also, may you light a candle, draw a hot bath, and listen to Solange’s new album.

‘Cause that’ll make you feel real good too.


Today reminds me of a dream I had many many years ago. I’m in a chilled room of floor to ceiling windows overlooking a San Francisco drenched in fog.

G-d is my tailor, and he is measuring me up for a performance. He silently works around my body as I stare onto a desolate Union Square.

Suddenly behind my ear I hear, “Where are your wounds?”

“I have none,” I say.

He pauses.

Then he asks, “Was nothing worth fighting for?”


Current mood/vibez/look.



Adventures In Meeting Your Childhood Heroes

I lost two of my childhood heroes in the last year:

Robin Williams and Gene Wilder.

I met Robin Williams when I was 10 years old.

Robin Williams was the The Pied Piper of my hometown, Marin County.

He was my fellow Redwood Giant.

I used to memorize his stand-up routines in high school and perform them for friends.

He tried teaching me to do a wheelie once on the set of “Jack” down the street from my house. I failed miserably.

He picked me back up and smiled and wheelied away with a cackle, sending me a photo and a note in the mail a few weeks later.

He was always so generous and so kind.

I met Gene Wilder about 5 years ago.

I was the bartender in the Presidential Suite at the US Open. (Never mind that at the time, I had never made a drink in my life – for myself let alone celebrities and international heads of state. But still, with a bit of mischief, I said sure, I can do that.)

It was a loud, boisterous scene. Mr. Wilder, one of my top five childhood idols, approached me. Quietly. Slowly. He walked with a cane, but no surprise tumbles were to come.

I want to say he ordered a soda water.

He kept his eyes on me as I made him his drink. Quietly. Intently. I’m no good at making conversation with my heroes, so I responded in the same manner. Quietly. Intently.

Images flashed across my mind. 7 year old me on stage, playing Grandpa Joe in Willy Wonka. 9 year old me at home, wearing out VHS tapes of Young Frankenstein and Blazing Saddles.

I handed him his beverage. He promptly took his wallet out of his pocket.

I said, “Oh no, sir. That won’t be necessary.” Tips were prohibited.

He paused to smile at me. A Mona Lisa smile. It felt as if he was studying me, discovering me. Or maybe he was letting me discover him.

He slowly turned his wallet upside down, holding it high above the bar. Then, he opened it wide. A few singles fell like feathers. Silence. He paused and smiled a little wider. He maintained eye contact with me. I was locked in his gaze.

Then, a few coins dropped out. Plop, Plop. Plop….Plop.

It was like a clown routine. Grace and perfect timing never eluded him.

He put his wallet back in his pocket, took my hand, then held it in his own.

“Sir, that won’t be necessary,” I repeated.

He glanced down for a moment, but only to look at my name tag. He looked back up.

“Michael. It’s very necessary.”

I could barely breathe. In his hands I felt play, vitality, honor, mischief. Great, lovely, wonderful mischief.

He released my hand, pushed $4.63 across the bar, nodded his head, then walked away.

Thank you, Mr. Wilder.
We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.
Thank you, Mr. Williams.
All my love to you, poppet.